So. I have a new project.
Again.
Shelving another project.
Again.
I believe I’ve been project hoping until something feels… right. At first, it felt like a cop-out: I wasn’t dedicated, structured, or disciplined enough to complete the existing manuscript. Those are large words to swallow… because they all boil down to “I think I’m not good enough.”
2011 has been a year of discovery for me, and the veneer is slowly chipping away. I’m proud to say I am good enough. I have stories. Ideas. Scribbles. Scraps of phrases. Mental pictures. Things well enough to make my toes occasionally curl in joy because I wrote that – not someone else.
I even found the cover art of my future book. Who cares if it’s two or ten years away?
The block revolved around finding the right story; the one that makes my fingers itch and my legs twitch and my brain get fuzzy and hazy. Not to jinx anything, but I think I’ve found it.
It’s been invigorating. More than any other project. Maybe because it’s so personal. Maybe it’s because I finally feel well enough in my writer brain to accept this draft needs words on a page so I can rearrange them the way I picture them.
A healthy mental space. I dare say it is more important than the best atmosphere, writing utensils, or schedule.
